


The Storm is Dead, Long live the Storm

by mostlyclouds



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Forced Marriage, Sexual Violence, pre-asoiaf
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2020-01-23 20:44:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18557512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlyclouds/pseuds/mostlyclouds
Summary: The Origins and the lives of the first Baratheons and the last Durrandons.Told mostly from the pov of Argella Durrandon but expanding with different chapters.Spanning the end of one world to the beginning of the next, the events of the last Storm and the following years. The Storm Queen remains a fascinating figure as one of the few women who opposed the creation of the Iron throne. Still, a queen must learn to adapt and learn how to thrive.Conversely, Orys Baratheon, a warrior and one of Aegon's only friends must take on a new role. That of a lord of a people who accepted him only to save their own lives and a husband of a wife who would rather have died than submit.Tired of fighting, he wants no more victories by conquest, unlike his Targaryen kin, and together with this belligerent, proud people and their beautiful and stubborn queen, a new world begins to be forged from the storm and the dragonflame.





	1. Before the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Tags and summary may change as the fic goes on.

The Durrandon household was an old and proud one. Each morning as she dressed in front of the mirror the storm princess viewed herself coolly in the mirror, head tilted up and her deep blue eyes steely. She was no delicate lady. She was her father's heir and heir to the storm crown. He had always promised her, no matter who she married, no matter what her husband called himself, it was her blood that mattered- her line that must continue. It was a heavy duty, but one Argella had embraced since childhood.

 

Dark hair brushed till it gleaned, and dressed in the deepest black velvet with embroidery of gold- the colours of her house, she strode to the throne room. The halls of her home were filled with unspoken tension, the like of which she had not felt before. It was unusual enough that she should receive a direct official summons from her father, and now to see her guards fail to meet her gaze…

A few lines crinkled her forehead in worry. She caught her image in one of the suits of armour of storm kings passed that lined the corridor to the throne room, and quickly ironed out her face again. Argilac had never been one to tolerate weakness. It was a luxury for lesser bloodlines. She was the descendant of Arlan the Avenger, Baldric the Cunning and Durran Godsgrief himself.

 

Entering the room, she curtseyed deeply, the black fabric of her dress pooling around her. Her eyes, however, remained direct and frank in their gaze, and her head and circlet remained held aloft

“My lord father,” she said, by way of greeting.

“Daughter” Argilac replied rising from his storm throne to embrace his daughter. He was a strong man still, passed his prime slightly, but his shoulders had lost none of their broadness and the sword that hung by his side had lost none of its sharpness.

 

Pulling away, he looked at his child in the eye.

“I have news, my love. King Harren is dead”

Smiling, Argella was about to burst into congratulations about the death of this old enemy. Perhaps now they could reclaim the Riverlands her grandfather had lost, either through conquest or marriage. She had long admired Harlan, his second son. She had dared not say it out loud, but that tall lithe body and black Hoare eyes that seemed to match the ferocity of her own had left a lingering impression. And, if his elder brother remained unmarried. If they were careful her sons could be heirs of both… black haired boys with dark storm eyes.

 

These musings were cut brutally short.

“The whole house Hoare is dead. Burned alive in that monstrous castle of theirs, by the Targaryen beasts.”

 

She looked to her uncles, to confirm if this were true. Their stony expressions confirmed it. For the first time since Aegon had sent his raven and raised his standard, she felt a pang of fear.

Harrenhal had been supposed to be insurmountable. These were not deaths of distant Gardener prince's. She knew these men- even if they had long been her families enemy. Her mouth went dry as she recollected the youngest of the Hoare Princes- scarcely more than two years old, and his sister only five. The dragons offered no mercy. But, she resolved, she would want none of it even if it were offered.

 

Finally, she replied. “At least there is one less foe for us to kill ourselves”

She saw her fathers look of pride at her defiance, but saw with a qualm of fear that her uncles’ faces remained dour.

 

As heir to the kingdom, her father had let her sit in his council since she had turned sixteen. The wooden panelled halls seemed darker these days, and the old war map that had been rolled up ever since she was a child was laid out, marked with their forces and men. She saw with great relief that their numbers were greater than the Targaryen forces. They were led by that Baratheon bastard. The one they had once offered her.

As if the daughter of a King would accept the son of a mere knight. Of course, they all knew the rumours that he was the Targaryen's bastard brother- but the bastard brother of a usurper was no better match.

 

“What of supplies?” she ventured to ask. She knew enough of warfare to know a smaller force had much to lose in all-out battle. Storms end was a strong keep- They would not be able to take it by force. But if it came down to a siege, the 80 foot thick walls would become their own prison, or like the Hoare Kings- their kiln.  

“The Targaryen’s have no interest in slow warfare. They have shown that in Harrenhal and in the slaughter of the Gardiners before them”- her uncle Ser Steffon answered bitterly.

“Still it is surely worth it, as much so there is nothing left to feed them. An army cannot march with an empty stomach, and if they bring one of those monsters with them, I am sure it will need even more”

“True- Maester Manfred, aid Princess Argella in recalling the smallfolk. I will not allow stormfolk to be harried by a jumped up bastard”

With a bow and a curtsey, they left the council, leaving Argilac, his knights and brothers to decide the strategy of war. Soon ravens flew from the Tower, across the stormlands calling the storm folk to the safety of their local lords keeps, or to Storms End itself.

 

Day by day more and more men, women and children filtered into the safety of the great walls or the nearby towns. The training grounds where Argella had grown up and learned the basics of swordplay were now filled when knights and lords drilling their troops. Rows upon rows of archers fired at butts in the fields outside the walls, while the stables were drained of horses each time the calvary practised a charge. All day and all night the glow from the forges gave the world as eery light- glowing a bright as lightning in a dark sky. The din of blades and armour being forged echoed even into the Round Hall in the very heart of the castle.

Argella walked among the lords, just as grim and warlike as them. Her and the ladies of the Stormlands sat and stitched- jerkins, shield covers, sheaths- while they covered their husbands, fathers and sons war capes with embroidery, imbuing each stitch with wordless prayers, hoping that like the spells supposedly woven into the stone around them, that they would keep them safe.

Before long most, the major lords and their forces had arrived. Ravens came daily from Bronzegate- where Lords Buckler, Eroll and Fell remained, anticipating the approach of the Targaryen forces from the narcissistically named Aegonfort. Argella despised the name, not only was it egotistical, it sounded moronic to her ears- the kind of name a house from beyond the Narrow Sea would give their home.

 

Then the Ravens stopped.

 

Word came piece by piece at first. Refugees who spoke of a great shadow in the sky. Of the Great forests of their northern borders burning like a pyre.

Each day Argella woke, afraid that a great wordless shadow would fall across the great tower of her home. Her dreams were filled with claustrophobic flames battering at her windows, burning the Round Hall, greedily devouring the banners of her house. Each of these dreams ended the same way, lying in the courtyard with her nose and mouth parched and dry and the stone flags covered in the ash of her own blood. In these dreams, a great man with purple eyes that burn with an unnatural fire stands above her. He offers her his hand. She spits on it, and he raises his sword to give the fatal blow.

She does not tell her father of these dreams of course. And then, one morning, she awoke from her nightmares to the blast of trumpets. She ran to her window, still clothed in soft silk of her nightclothes. A trail of men snakes across the plains, filing into the castle slowly. These are not like the soldiers that have filled the Stormhalls in the last month, in their bright armour and bold laughter. These men are dark, covered in ash and grief and fear.

 

Quickly she dressed, not even stopping to call a maid. She had only just tied her girdle when Ser Dickon Morrigen- one of her father’s personal knights, and a man who had grown up as a ward of the Storm King, arrived out of breath at her door. He did not even need to speak to tell her of her father’s summons.

She strode down the corridor, her skirts billowing like a soldier’s cape.

 

In the hall, she met a sorry sight. Her father, flanked with by his lords and advisers and kneeling before him Lords Buckler, Errol and Fell. The former she recognised, she had met the old warrior lord before, but the other two were new made lords. The Haystack Lord was the son of the man she had once known. The woodland sigil now decorates the shoulders of a man barely more than a boy, neither the Lord Fell or his son, but likely a cousin. He looked terrified.

“What happened?” she demanded. The kneeling lords looked at the furious woman before them, slight, and yet at that moment as powerful and fearful as Elenei herself, the daughter of wave and wind.

 

“We met them in battle. In the woods beyond Bronzegate. It was only meant to be a surprise attack, Intended to slow them down. We reached their camp, I even saw Ors Baratheon himself, he wears the badge of the King’s hand now. He stood in the centre of their camp barking orders. I thought at that moment we would succeed in our purpose. And then” Lord Buckler,aged warrior that he was, shuddered. The Young Lord Fell continued his story, his voice was high and reedy, but steadier that Argella would have expected.

 

“At first it was only noise in the distance. An inhuman screech like you would not believe, and then it came swooping down. A great green beast, with a rider dressed in armour, with long white hair billowing in the wind. The men broke their battalions. Within minutes we left the plains of their encampment in our haste- running to the forests. Against any other foe, the trees would have protected us. But it just provided fuel for Dragonfire. My uncle and cousin perished, burned so badly I could scarce recognise their corpses.” The young man now turned to face Argilac. “While Meraxes still flies, and Dragonfire is still on their side, no force or keep will turn the tide”

“Do you suggest I kneel?” Argilac rose from his throne, in such fury, you could almost see the froth on his lips. “I am a King. A lord of the Storm. Can lightning not kill a dragon?”

“But my lord…” Lord Buckler interjected.

 

“No. I will not run and hide behind my walls like a child hiding behind its mother’s skirts. This is our home, our land, our people. We will end this threat and avenge our fallen. Ours is the Storm! Ours is the Fury!”

 

The Cry was taken up by the lords of the hall until even the kneeling lords seemed to regain their life. From her corner, Argella joined in the ancient cry, filled with new lust for victory, crying out till her voice grew hoarse. “Ours is the Storm! Ours is the fury! Ours is the Storm! Ours is the fury!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The inhabitants of Storms End wait for news, led by a new Queen equally as stubborn and strong-willed as her father.

The standard of the Storm Kings left Storms End for the last time, flying proud and confident. Unknowing the princess of the Stormlands stood watching- her heart keeping beat to the rhythm the horses’ hooves pounded into the clod. Although she would not admit it there was a cruel spike of fear- a whisper of doubt that struck her- whispering in her inner heart of hearts that perhaps all she knew would come tumbling down. 

That day, and every day after it she ruled as she had been brought up to do. She had long overseen the day to day running of the house, but now she dealt with the refugees coming to the castle, with shoring up the castle’s defences should the worst happen. Although the majority of the blacksmiths had left to join her father’s camp, those who were left kept their forges burning day and night. Amongst their creations was a new set of arrows- especially fitted for Argella’s bow- and a helm which bore the Storm Crown. Either as Princess or as a Queen she was ready to defend her keep to the Last. 

Each night- after the demands of the days were over she would visit those troops who remained to defend the castle, overseeing their drill and offering her support to those who had brothers, fathers and sons in the host who had joined their family. Just as popular were her shows of faith kneeling praying in the Sept. The faith of the Seven had long been popular in the Storm kingdom. Then each night she stood before her window and begged the Lord of the Skies and Lady of the Waters to bring her house victory.   
“By the love you bore my ancestors, by the love of Elenei- bring my father home- keep our kingdom safe”

One night, as she prayed the thunder roared, and the wind blew. The sound of the storm was like a lullaby, the Storm was hers, the Storm was house Durrandon.   
Outside Bronzegate the same storm roared and raged. The Banner of the Storm Kings was raised- flapping proudly in the stiff wind. Plastered with rain Argilac thundered to his troops- as they rushed headlong to face the roar of the dragon. 

The next day, the world washed fresh from the rain, Argella continued her tasks, ignoring the pounding in her heart, the certainty that amidst the crackle of lightning and the shouts of the gods, the world had changed. By the first call of the horn, she was already stood, rushing to the gates to see who was arriving. A horse charged into the courtyard- covered in mud and blood. Its rider’s armour was dented, his shield so scratched his sigil was invisible. He threw open his visor and began to speak- shouting to the whole courtyard of slaughter and doom.   
“The King is dead, The king is dead!” his voice grew shrill in fear, as in his mind he saw Dragonfire consuming men stuck thigh-deep in the mud. A voice cut threw his, stern and clear as a bell. 

“If the King is dead, then you shall have a Queen. And I swear to you that I will not stand by and let harm come to any of you. This is not the first Storm we have weathered- and if you stand with me it will not be the last.” Argella had barely heard the boys words, nor the murmuring fear that had swept amongst the gathered crowd. Yet as she stood up - the sun beating a crown of light onto her raven hair- silence came amongst the people. They looked at her- slim and dressed in only a gown of velvet- yet also somehow as hard as iron. Argella’s heart swelled, as grief and pride overwhelmed her. In the faces of those around her was a mixture of love and fear- but not of her- of the unknown. The dragonlords who had slain an army twice their size, who were marching to her keep as she spoke. For the first time Argella felt a pang of fear- no longer just for her father and her people outside the safety of Storm’s End- but for herself. She could not help but question how she was to fulfil her promises of victory and safety- and she was all too aware that doubt was shared. She had long dreamed of coming into power- but she had never expected it to weigh so heavy on her young shoulders.   
She looked into the eyes of the castellan of the castle- a man she had known all her life. Gone was his bluster. Gone was his fatherly look- instead there was only grief for his two sons, likely lost outside Bronzegate- and doubt in his new queen. 

Like her father, before her, she insisted on a coronation by the new gods and the olds- one in the Sept and one before the Storm. Unlike Argilac’s grand ceremony, this was a quickly organised small scale affair. Every day more details reached them about the slaughter outside Bronzegate. Although none would say it to her face Argella knew that the battle was already known as the Last Storm. 

Two days after the Storm Crown had been placed on her head, a strange noise was heard at Storm's end. In the distance, there was a great rumble. The arrival of the enemy army. It had been expected and yet nothing had quite prepared Argella for the sight of them. Where the banners of her father had once flown flew the three-headed dragon standard. A strange flag over a strange camp. Even more bizarre than these strange soldiers were the whispers about a strange shadow in the sky. The reports all spoke of a dragon- but none who had got close enough to work out which of the three it was could identify it. 

Until of course, Meraxes landed in front of her gate. 

A slim silver-haired figure slid off it, dressed in purple silks and a kind of decorative armour made up of silver scales. In Argellas eyes, it was a somewhat facetious display, but she could not deny she was a beautiful woman. She swept down the stairs from the upper gallery and into the courtyard. She was dressed in leathers and a tunic, far more sensible in her eyes. 

"my lady" she addressed the stranger coldly.  
"Its Queen Rhaenys, my lady" she replied, equally as chillingly.   
"You are no Queen of the Stormlands. You do not command its people or its armies" 

"armies? What armies?" Rhaenys laughed, charmingly, pacing the courtyard as if sizing it up as her own. 

"I'll be Frank with you, my lady." she continued. Argella bristled at the title but merely gave the woman her strictest glare. It did not help her knights had all backed against the walls and seemed fixated either on the ivory claws or serrated teeth of Meraxes 

"Your army has fallen, those who have not died have fled. Your father is among the former. If you do not forfeit your castle and claim to the former storm kingdom you will meet the same fate"   
The beautiful woman finished, with a smile far more warm than her words would indicate. Rhaenys had no desire to bring about any more death. The battlefield was cold and cruel, and Rhaenys believed there was more to life than slaughter and conquest. The Stormlands were harsh and had little discernable culture. She preferred the courts of their southern states, the music and sun. 

Argella scowled, who was this woman to fly into her keep and demand her surrender. For all the legends of the greatness of the Targaryens and even the majesty of the winged beast before her, which she had to admit struck a chord of fear within her, this woman seemed little more than a pampered lady to her. She had met several, in her visits to foreign courts, and this one impressed her little more than the rest. 

"My father may have fallen, but this, this is Storms End. The Gods of the sea and waves themselves tried to take it and failed. While a child of Durran and Elenei still sits in its great Hall it shall not fall. That is my answer, my lady. You may be a dragon but what is a dragon but flesh and blood" she gestured fiercely towards her, impassioned "We are the elements themselves" 

With a defiant final look, she turned on her heels to stand by her men. She could tell suddenly the fear in their eyes, they seemed to barely acknowledge their queen beside them. 

When the foreign queen did not move, she added to her dismissal “You will not get another answer, take my word back to your men”.   
Rhaenys raised her eyebrow at the blunt response but climbed aboard her dragon nonetheless. Before departing, however, she addressed the watching men.   
“Your lady may be content to meet the same fate as Lord Hoare and his sons. But we have no more desire for warfare. If you become the subjects of the Targaryen rule, I can promise you safety. House Durrandan can promise you only Fire, and Blood.”   
With her final words, she flew away.   
“Prepare for a seige” were Argella’s only words, terse but calm before she returned to her study to organise her next step. However, her men remained glued to the spot with fear, watching the sky long after the figure of the dragon and its rider disappeared into the blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a lot has happened since I last posted or updated any fics. Mostly uni, essay and involvement in student theatre which is a massive vacuum of time.   
> Hopefully, this attempt isn't too shabby and I'll try and make more time for writing in the New Year!
> 
> Any feedback and comments are always welcome, and thank you so much to anyone who left ones on the last chapter! You don't understand how encouraging it is!!


	3. A Raging storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the famous bit of the story.   
> TW this is probably going to be one of the more explicit parts of the story, with profane language and language of sexual violence. Reference to nudity and general violence and abuse. 
> 
> Argella's men decide to take fate into their own hands, with unforeseen consequences.

It was a wild night that night. Storms battered the walls of the keep, but Durran’s walls held strong as ever. Argella had a wild grin on her face as she lay half asleep in her great bed, thinking of the Targaryen camp below. They would have little protection from the elements, and the damp would ruin their morale. 

Her eyes slowly closed, lulled by the lullaby of the wind and the waves. Her papers, which she had kept in her hand slowly slid out her fingers, onto the thick furs that kept her warm. In the hearth, the fire slowly began to dim, and the room entered the world of Twilight as Argella entered the land of sleep. 

Then, she awoke to rough hands pulling her out of bed. Men’s hands. Hands in leather and chainmail, scraping and bruising her skin through her nightgown. The dark of her chamber was pierced with shouts and cries. The harsh light of their torches burned against her eyes, and in the world of panic and half-light, she caught sight of the whites of their eyes. Wide with fear. Mad with anger. She thrashed and wriggled, scratching at the staring eyes, biting leather, skin and flesh. She shouted and screamed for her men to come to her. But none came. 

She was dragged into the great hall and thrown before the throne. Her throne.   
No one sat there, but in front of it stood all the remaining lords of her people. 

“What is the meaning of this” Though her body ached, and her heart was pounding with fear, her voice rang out strong. 

She picked herself off from the ground, straightening her nightgown of the finest silk and brushing down her now bleeding palms. Even now, with her hair escaping her thick braid and her slim body beginning to shiver in the nights chill, she was every inch a queen. 

She glared at her disloyal lords, daring one of them, any of them to explain themselves. To her satisfaction, none could meet her eye and her ire. Then, one spoke. It was Lord Buckler, his voice miserable and mad   
“You would kill us all for your pride. Your father took my sons, I will not let you destroy what is left of my family”. 

“And what would you do instead? Lick the boots of those slaughtered our men. Let them lay their swords stained with the blood of our kin on our necks, and trust in their mercy” Her voice was thick with disdain and pride. 

“She will never listen to us”, one young knight spoke up. “I say we take matters into our own hands.” 

To Argella’s fear a rumble of agreement spread around the room. She looked madly for allies, but all that met her was fear and anger. 

“The bitch may not care if she dies, but I have a wife and son”, a voice cried out. 

“Give her to them! Let her rot in their cells for all I care!” cried another.   
“Let them kill the bitch!” cried yet another, as the rumble in the room rose to a crescendo. Shouts of anger and threats towards her rose. In their vile anger and fear men, she had known all her lives became strangers. She caught the eyes of the castellan, but he simply bowed his head in shame and did nothing as she was seized once more.   
It was all she could do to stop herself crying out, as she was pulled and pushed. Her nightdress was ripped from her body. She could not tell what was worse, the blows or groping at her exposed chest and arse. She closed her eyes and tried to shut the whole world out. She would survive this. She would survive this. She would survive this. 

***

Orys Baratheon had never cared for politics. Fighting a campaign, tactics and battle that was all within his nature, but active deceit was not. His face spoke his feelings plainly at all times. It was one of the many ways he was the opposite of Aegon. His hair was as dark as Aegon’s was pale, his figure as broad and as Aegon’s was slim, and his countenance as honest as Aegon’s was reserved. Still, he found a strange camaraderie with Rhaenys. For all that, she was a creature of court, and the machinations and intricacies of her world of art and costume would eternally confuse him, he found solace in her open affectionate nature. Which was why, after her disappointing trip to Storms End, she spent the night crosslegged on the rug on the floor of his tent. 

Her armoured jewellery removed, she looked even younger than she was dressed in long a purple silk robe, with a thick cloak that belonged to her brother thrown over the top.   
“I wanted to go in there and offer them safety. Orys, you know me! I don’t like killing people, it's messy and horrible. I thought if we offered them mercy, they would take it, and love me as their new queen.”   
She spoke miserably, slurring her words slightly. As much as they loved her Orys knew her siblings put pressure on Rhaenys to expand their empire and to love the work as much as they did. 

“Give them time” he gently replied. “It is not easy to accept defeat, especially when grief is still fresh” 

“Their Queen was so haughty with me! I cannot help it that they lost the battle, and yet she threatens me. She is brave, I’ll admit, but foolish. And to think- her father wanted to marry her to Aegon. They’d have killed each other within the night.” She smiled fondly at the thought of her brother-husband. Orys chuckled to himself. If her temper anything like Aegon’s no wonder she was difficult to deal with. He was reminded of the deal that was offered, his hand for this haughty princess’s. 

“You may still have to marry her, y’ know” Rhaenys added slyly, reading her half brother’s thoughts. “She’s pretty enough, although not pretty enough for you” she added affectionately, planting a slightly tipsy kiss on his cheek. “That is a conversation for another day, and quite enough wine for you”, he told her off, mock stern. Rhaenys pouted, but acquiesced, allowing him to pour her a cool glass of water instead, which she gulped down gratefully. A crash of thunder sounded, and a new barrage of rain battered the tent. 

“What does Aegon even want with this miserable place” she muttered half to herself. Orys could not help but agree, this was no sunny Kings Landing, or even the Westerlands or Reach. This was a wild country, although considering Aegon also had his eyes on the snowy winter lands, in comparison with which this seemed like a paradise. Rhaenys shivered and pulled him from his stool to sit beside her on the floor, wrapping his cloak around her too. She leant against him sweetly, and he enjoyed the quiet reprise after the hard campaign they had just fought. Suddenly the winds that battered the tent seemed to grow a little softer, and the patter of rain became like a more gentle soothing sound, a reminder of the cold outside of this cocoon of warmth. 

The quiet was shattered by horns. The trumpeters shrill cry rent the night. Activity roared outside. Something was happening. A Messenger ran into the tent.   
“M'lord, Your highness, come to the command tent. Now” 

“What is happening?” Rhaenys, commanded, suddenly sober. 

“I…. I’m not sure” the man replied. Orys gave him a curt nod of dismissal and reattached his sword belt, which he had thrown across his camp bed.   
“I suppose we’ll see” he posited, offering his arm to Rhaenys, who took it with a sweet smile. “I suppose we will”

They walked across the field into the commander’s tent, a monstrosity festooned with red and black drapes and lit with large braziers on fire. At the head were two folding chairs, for the Queen and her general, Rhaenys sat down, draping her legs over the arms of the chair. Orys remained standing, pacing as the nights chill seeped from his shirt. A soldier entered, bowing deeply 

“A Deputation has arrived from Storm’s End”   
He could barely be heard over the jeers from outside.   
“Let them in,” Orys said, gently but loud enough that he could be heard over the racket. A tight-knit group of men entered, wearing a uniform now all too familiar to the Baratheon general. Dark steel armour, almost black, with surcoats of gold, emblazoned with individual house crests. One man stood forward. He was young, and his face was flushed with anger and lust while his eyes held the manic look of fear. 

“We bring you the Durrandon bitch and swear fealty to House Targaryen. It is her folly that would oppose you, we want no part of it”  
He practically spat out his words. He raised his arms and from within the knot of men that accompanied them a young girl was dragged out. 

She was festooned in great heavy chains that cut into her pale skin. Underneath she was naked. Great welts appeared from on her body from her manhandling. Orys did not wish to linger his gaze on her, beautiful as she was, and a great sense of shame and anger welled up inside of him. The girl looked up, Dark hair tangled and caught up, and varying in lengths, where it had been hacked off in a mark on disgrace. Her lips were beginning to swell from a vicious looking cut across them, the result of what looked like a backhanded blow from someone wearing a gauntlet.   
And yet. 

Her blue eyes remained fierce. Even swimming through tears her gaze was as piercing as a hawk and spoke of pride and quiet dignity he could not help but respect. 

Without thinking Orys tore his cloak off his shoulders and draped it around the girl, covering her nakedness. He looked at the ground, unable to express his shock and surprise. This was Argella Durrandon. The same great and noble lady Rhaenys had complained about but obviously liked (he knew her well enough to tell the difference between her genuine dislike and grudging respect). A great lady, the daughter of a great man, who though foolish had fought well even to the end. Moreover, she was undeniably a person and no person should be subject to the anger of men frightened for their lives, nor the lust of soldiers. He felt a pang of fear that she had not just been humiliated. 

“Remove the chains” he boomed, Furious now. 

Seemingly shocked that their ‘gift’ had been met with such disdain, the knights of storms end hurried to free their Queen. 

“Rhaenys will take you to bath your wounds and get some clean clothes for you, my lady. I will have these men held here, do not doubt they will be punished”. 

Men rushed forward to seize the so-called knights who had accompanied her. At first, it looked as if they might struggle, but the fight had gone out of them long before. Orys felt a particular vicious satisfaction as their ringleader was struck behind the knees, crumpling to the ground in pain and shame. Argella bowed her head in response and merely wrapped the gifted cloak tighter around her. Rhaenys, hurried to her side, wrapping an arm around the shoulder of the girl who just hours before had been her great enemy. As they were about to leave the tent into the cold of the storm outside, Argella suddenly looked up, looking Orys straight in the eye. 

“Thank you, sir. But they are my men. I shall decide on a fitting punishment”. Those bruised lips curled up in a vicious smile, and the outline of her proud face was illuminated by a strike of lightning outside. Then the Former Queen stepped out into the storm and disappeared into the night.


End file.
